


Firing Shots

by firesandpixies



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Crack, Gun Violence, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Pissy Thranduil, excessive cussing, sassy thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesandpixies/pseuds/firesandpixies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard and Thranduil’s life together as the top contract killers in the country. (Hitmen!AU)<br/>  <i></i><br/><b>“You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen.”</b><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Firing Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [prompts in this tumblr post](http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/108022477839/ridiculous-sentence-prompts)
> 
> Hitmen!AUs are so incredibly cliche but I'm a complete sucker for knives and guns and thus the unfortunate birth of this fic. Didn't find time to proofread this so please excuse any grammatical error, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

The way Bard and Thranduil met was… unorthodox. In fact, nothing about them is considered conventional by most standards. They are two grown men who run a Chinese restaurant, live in a mansion of bulletproof glass in the outskirts of town, own a state of the art laboratory in their basement, and binge watch Totally Spies in their free time.

Bard likes to think they are just a normal couple blissfully in love.

And it just so happens that they are the top contract killers in the country.

 

**//**

Thranduil has his eyes set on his target. A man in his fifties, grey haired, beer bellied, and dressed in expensive suit and leather shoes. He steadies his aim and points his gun at the back of the man’s head, waiting for the perfect opportunity in the shadows. In the split second before he pulls the trigger, a throwing knife has glided through the air and lodged itself into his target’s throat.

The man gurgles on his blood and lifelessly crumbles to the floor with a solid thud. Thranduil glances around in a mixture of shock and fury and spots a flash of a man ducking between two buildings not far away.

“Oh hell no bitch, you did not just kill my target.” Thranduil stalks over to the alley, and sees a man in denim shirt with sleeves rolled up, leisurely packing up his set of throwing knives. Thranduil mentally notes how contrasting they look – Thranduil in his pressed suit and formal business demeanour, the other man in his ‘I-look-like-I-work-in-a-dirty-car-garage’ attire.

“Have you got no code of ethics, huh? How dare you lay hands on my target,” Thranduil accuses, waving his gun around in agitation. “Dishonour on you, dishonour on your cow!”

“He was my target too.” The man only looks up in amusement, completely unaffected by Thranduil’s outburst and accusation. “And did you just quote Mulan?”

“I can quote the whole Tripitaka if I like, but right now, I would rather spend my time thinking about how much money I can recover if I sold your kidneys!” Thranduil narrow his eyes at the nonchalance of the other killer, annoyed that his solar panel roof would be put on hold without this payment.

The guy only smiles as he leans his shoulder against the wall and eyes Thranduil appreciatively. “Maybe we can sit down and talk about this,” he whispers suggestively. “About how much I seem to owe you and how I can make it up.”

Thranduil recoils in apprehension and frowns. “Are you flirting with me? Seriously? I’m three quarters convinced to puncture a hole in your stomach and pull your kidneys out.”

The raven-haired male only shrugs and flashes a lopsided smirk. “I like a guy who can punch.”

 

Two years later, they find themselves buying a house, having arguments about décor (Bard gives in to Thranduil, he always does), watching chick flicks on Netflix, and going out on cheesy movie dates and ending up half naked in a toilet cubicle. When they aren’t too busy putting bullet through heads or shooting poisoned darts, they spend time in their nondescript Chinese restaurant tucked away in a corner in town.

It was Thranduil’s idea (as of all things) to open up a Chinese restaurant out of the many other businesses they could have done because _“I think we need to spice up our lives, our jobs are getting a bit boring. Also, I like sweet and spicy noodles.”_ But really, rather than the restaurant being a source of income, its main purpose is to allow Bard and Thranduil to have Chinese food for free whenever they want (and they do want it pretty often).

Like many couples, they have their fair share of arguments, rough patches and issues, from ridiculous quarrels like _“Holy crap, you stained the carpet!” “What?! No, it was YOUR cum!”_ , to matters in the more unconventional spectrum.

“Jesus, Bard!” Thranduil yells, “stop leaving the dead bodies in the kitchen!” Thranduil eyes the bloody corpse of a young woman on the tiles and side steps it to get a guava.

“And clean the blood off the floor afterwards,” he shouts as an afterthought.

“Yes princess, I’m here,” Bard replies, padding to the kitchen in a plain white tee that hugs his muscles in the most enticing way.

“I’m not a fucking princess,” Thranduil sniffs in absolute dismay. “It’s _your majesty_.”

 

**//**

Bard perches his sniper rifle on the ledge of a window looking out to the decrepit building across the road that houses shady massage parlours and clubs. He kneels, propping his elbow on his thigh and focuses on looking through the scope. His targets are estimated to leave the building soon – a corrupt government official and another highly influential member of the triads.

His phone rings, and usually he would ignore it but he finds it quite difficult when the name that flashes on his screen is none other than his boyfriend’s. So like the hopelessly whipped man he is (in the best possible way), he answers the call with his wireless earphone.

“Hey love,” he greets distractedly, eyes unmoving from the scope.

 _“Hi boo,”_ Thranduil’s voice sounds from the earpiece. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Uh… it’s not a good time right now, Thranduil,” Bard says.

_“Are you on an assignment?”_

“Yes, I am.” Bard spots the government official leaving the office first – a middle aged man in dark blue suit and gelled hair, speaking heatedly on the phone. Bard’s muscles tense as he waits for the man to stop pacing and moving about. “I really can’t talk right now.”

The second man appears and steps in beside the first man. _Shit,_ Bard had wanted to pick them off separately, but since both of them are here, he would have to shoot the triad member first and hope that the official is as slow and clumsy as he looks.

 _“Am I distracting you?”_ Thranduil asks in the deep, rich voice of his.

“Yes, yes you are.” Bard zeroes in on the triad member and fires. The bullet cleanly pierces the man’s temples and just as quickly, Bard shifts his aim on the official.

_“Well then.”_

Bard readies his aim on the second man who is still pale and unmoving from shock. He holds down the trigger and–

_“Daddy, I want you to bend me over the table and fuck me so hard I can’t walk.”_

_Ping!_ Bard misses and shoots the lamppost beside the man instead.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he ditches his sniper, pulls out his pistol and jumps off the second storey window with impressive dexterity. “Fuck you Thranduil!” He yells as he sprints after the government official, who finally found enough sense to run for it.

Thranduil’s laughter rings in the background as Bard severs the guy’s spinal cord with two shots.

 

Bard and Thranduil blissfully snuggle on their couch, watching Japanese game shows in their half-worn pyjamas and after-sex-hair while waiting for the pizza delivery to arrive. The doorbell rings and Thranduil sits up from his comfortable position on Bard’s chest and excitedly bounces to the door. He hurriedly gathers his long silver hair into a high ponytail in attempt to look more presentable to the delivery guy.

“Hello–”

Before Thranduil could finish his sentence, the man at his front door who does not look like the pizza delivery guy at all, raises a machete and frantically hacks at Thranduil.

“What the hell?” Thranduil expertly dodges every advance with ease and glares at the man in black ski mask pointedly. In one swift motion, he blocks off an attack with his left arm, pins the intruder against the wall with his other forearm and knees the guy so hard that multiple cracks of his ribs could be heard.

The man groans in agony as Thranduil demands menacingly, “Who sent you?”

“Revenge… for Boss…” he chokes, air supply running short with Thranduil’s arm pressed against his windpipe and the multiple fractures on his ribcage. With an unimpressed sneer, the blonde man knocks him unconscious with his elbow and drops him to the floor.

He turns around to see Bard lazily strolling over to see what the commotion was about. He has no doubts that Thranduil is completely capable of taking care of himself from his past experience of getting punched by his boyfriend.

“Looks like you offended the triads,” Thranduil remarks.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Bard shrugs and glances at the unconscious man on the floor.

The doorbell rings again and Thranduil immediately perks up. “Ooh, must be the pizza!” he exclaims eagerly and then pauses to order Bard. “Drag the guy to the basement and we’ll continue our interrogation later.”

Bard groans, “why is it always me?”

“Because it’s always your unconscious bodies.”

 

Few days later, Thranduil comes home from grocery shopping to an empty house. He finds it strange because Bard said nothing about assignments yesterday night. After he loads the grocery into the fridge and cabinets, which is suspiciously missing a few food items and notably the last two boxes of cereal, he ventures to their bedroom.

He finds a hastily written note on the bed:

 

**_Off to tie up some loose ends._ **

_**-Bard** _

Thranduil shrugs and decides to visit their Chinese restaurant. Bard knows what he’s doing.

 

At night, he tries calling Bard but to no avail, so he texts him instead: _call me when you’re free_

He tries again the next afternoon, only to hear his voicemail prompting to leave a message - so he does. _“Yo, are you dead?”_

Over the next few days, he goes on with his usual routine – running out for assignments, visiting the restaurant, buying useless trinkets from eBay, binge watching trashy reality TV programmes. He calls Bard once every day and leaves a voicemail each time.

 

**_“I’m horny as fuck, Bard. Where are you?”_ **

**_“Get your ass back here. I need you to clean the toilets.”_ **

**_“I’m half convinced you are cheating on me with a hot girl with big boobs.”_ **

**_“Where did you leave the dildo?”_ **

**_“Do you know what I like in life? Disney movies, shampooing my hair, AND MY BOYFRIEND TO CALL ME BACK.”_ **

 

It’s been a week and a half and Thranduil is slightly peeved about Bard’s disappearance act. He hasn’t contacted Thranduil since then, and that’s just plain rude. A few more hitmen have come looking for Bard during his absence. Thranduil tosses them down to the laboratory basement where he soaks the bodies in a tub of bleach. He continues to call Bard while his free hand empties the last container of bleach. Unsurprisingly, it reaches Bard’s voicemail where Thranduil leaves another message.

_“I know you are still alive, Bard. And you are going to be so dead when you come home after ignoring me for ten days.”_

 

**//**

Thranduil stretches in his sleep and flops his hand across the bed, expecting it to land on the empty mattress but instead, he feels something solid under his arm. Alarmed, he snaps his eyes open, every inch of sleepiness sucked away by the red light in his mind. Beside him, Bard is soundly asleep on his side, looking the same apart from the few minor scratches littered on his face. Thranduil takes a few seconds to gape at the sight before him before frowning and cumulating all his energy into a punch that lands squarely on Bard’s stomach. His boyfriend jolts awake with a painful yelp and clutches the spot where his fist was.

“What the fuck?” Bard cries.

“What the fuck back at you!” Thranduil yells, smacking Bard with his pillow.

Bard fends off the beating with his forearm. “This is not the welcome I expected.”

“You aren’t getting any welcome in this household after disappearing for so long, you little piece of shit!” Thranduil’s pillow comes down increasingly harder on Bard after every word.

“You’re angry,” Bard states.

“Yes, I am furious!” Thranduil glares. “Who wouldn’t be angry!? You took the last two boxes of cereal and vanished for a month!”

Bard grins affectionately and draws his boyfriend in for a hug, stroking his head softly while Thranduil makes half assed struggles against him. “But I’m back now,” he whispers.

He feels Thranduil trembling in his embrace, no doubt schooling the whirlpool of emotions back in place. He recognises the anger as how worried and afraid Thranduil secretly was for Bard, though he would never openly admit those feelings, and Bard is okay with that.

They were never a couple who needed sweet-talking or open confessions. They didn’t need language to convey their love. Their love was spoken from the everyday things they did. The habit Bard adopts of making an extra cup of coffee with precise amounts of cream and sugar for Thranduil each day; the times Thranduil remembers to record down the football games Bard misses from being at work; their contentment with staying in for dates all the time and silently holding each other for hours till one of them falls asleep. They were so comfortable with each other, it didn’t feel like there was a need to verbally express something they all knew by heart.

“I was already planning on what to wear for your funeral,” Thranduil mumbles after a while.

Bard chuckles, combing through Thranduil’s silvery hair that always smells like mixed berries and happiness. “You can decide on what to wear for our wedding first.”

“I’m not marrying a cereal stealer like you,” Thanduil snorts, words muffled by burying his face in Bard’s chest. “Also, can you clear out the dead bodies in the basement?”

“Goddamnit, Thranduil!” Bard groans, but there’s no heat to it.

Maybe someday it will be nice to hear their love in words and vows, but for now, this is all they really need.


End file.
